


Wanderers

by Sarielle



Series: Statue Shrine Series [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesiac Bill Cipher, Bill "Not as Big of a Dick as you used to be" Cipher, Fiddauthor if you squint cause I can't keep my gay hands off things, Gen, Kinda, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), More from the Bill Statue Universe, Post-Finale, Present Tense, Statue Bill, Supernatural Elements, The Hide Behind - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:51:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6074734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarielle/pseuds/Sarielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people of Gravity Falls tend to shun the 'cursed' statue in the woods. Still, there are some folk who brave his grotto, and as the poem goes, not all those who wander are lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanderers

**Author's Note:**

> More from Statue Shrine series cause I've been free and I couldn't resist developing this more. This whole thing was actually a good exercise to get me to hate the present tense less. I dunno how well it turned out. This aspect of Bill is interesting to write because he can't really remember who he used to be but he can get glimpses of things and he remembers being powerful and being worshiped but most of his being burned in Stan's mind. I suggest reading Wildflowers first so you know who Estela is, and her relationship with the statue Bill. The parts (I-V) are ordered chronologically so I is a few months after weirdmageddon and V is over a decade.

**I**

The parents of Gravity Falls tell their children not to play near the statue in the forest. Most of them don’t need telling at first. Most of them remember. It is hard to forget the end of the world.

He doesn’t know how long he has been there in the little grotto in the woods. Time has no meaning to him anymore. Some leaves turn amber; yet the tall pines stay the same. Like him, unchanging.  

A pair of children in knitted sweaters arrive with a basket and thick flannel blanket. The boy spreads the blanket out on the forest floor in front of Him. The girl plops herself down, bringing the basket down with her.

“It feels so long ago.” Says the boy, lying back and looking up at the sky.

“Somehow not long enough.” His sister replies. She crawls over on all fours until her face is almost pressed against the stone. “Do you wonder if there’s anything of him left in there?” She polishes the statue’s eye with a fluffy pink sleeve.

“If he is, he doesn’t have any power left.” Her brother pulls a soda out of the basket and opens it, he holds it out to her, all reassurance and compassion. “He can’t hurt us anymore, Mabel.” He wears his brown hair slicked back revealing an odd red mark on his forehead. His sister nods and accepts the drink like an olive branch. They sit close together in pensive silence.

 _Mabel._ The name feels like it should mean something. It feels like it should electrify his stone consciousness with memories of who he was before. Instead it just buzzes faintly like static and dissipates into the cool fall air.

* * *

**II**

A couple comes to visit him on their wedding day, both decked to the nines in full dress uniform. They stand hand-in-hand in front of his moss-covered body and stare. Neither man says anything for a while until the stouter man takes off his hat. A sign of respect.

“Ya know, I won’t ever forgive you for what ya did to this town. What ya tried to do to the world. You hurt our friends, our families, and you felt no regret for any of it.”  He scowls, shaking his head. But then, he looks askance at the younger man, skinny and pale, and his solemn expression softens.  “But if wasn’t for you, I don’t think we’d be where we are together. I hate to admit it, because you were nothin’ but evil, because you broke us apart, we realized what we were both missin’ right in front of us.”

“Sure did.” The other man takes out a small white tea candle and lays it down in front of the statue. He loosens the white rose in his buttonhole and leaves it there as well. His partner pulls a lighter from his trouser pocket and lights it for him. There is a pause, a reverent moment of silence. They resume holding hands. Eventually the stouter man scratches his moustache and clears his throat.  

“Now, don’t ya dare come between me and my husband _ever again_ or you’ll regret it.”

“Husband.” Echoes the other, with an almost childish giggle of glee. “We’re married.”

“We sure are, Durland. C’mon now. The photographer is probably looking for us.”

His husband laughs, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Mama Blubs is gonna be mad if we’re late to our own reception!”

* * *

 **III**  

It’s not only the humans of Gravity Falls that come to him on these occasional visits. Every so often the gnomes and fairy folk will bring their own offerings. Usually berries and crystals. Sometimes they leave him one of the weaker gnomes as a sacrifice. That feels familiar.

He thinks that people used to do this, in the time before. When he was… something else. Something powerful.  Why they brought sacrifices, he can’t quite remember. He is stuck inside the statue anyway so even he if wanted one (which quite honestly he doesn’t- they’re sticky and more mess than they’re worth.) he wouldn’t be able to do anything with it. Still it makes him feel important. Well, he already knows he’s important. It’s nice when the mortals remember.

The other gnomes come back sheepishly not too long later, they untie their friend and apologize for trying to feed him to some unholy chaos demon. The latest sacrifice’s name is Craig and he’s not really best pleased about this whole situation. The other gnomes offer to buy him a drink to make up for it. Craig seems to settle down. They disappear back into the trees but He knows he’ll see their like in time.

A full moon pools his prison in patches of pewter light.  A creature, unsettlingly tall and cast from shadows ambles towards him. It has two glowing golden eyes like trapped fireflies suspended in the black void of its body. It lunges at the statue, snuffling and growling. Trying to catch some kind of scent. There is nothing to pick up except the petrichor emanating from the damp forest floor. The shadow creature kicks at a beer bottle some careless teen has left behind. The bottle rolls away.

It is a strange thing for him to behold, even though the dusty memories from his past life tell him he has seen things more nightmarish than this. Its limbs are black branches, its body looks almost gaseous constantly shifting and settling like boiling black steam.

It sits itself down in the same way a wolf or coyote sits. Contrary to its epithet it does not hide behind anything. Sitting, open and pensive in the dappled moonlight it begins to sing. An ancient keening sound uncanny and discordant. He doesn’t know how but the cries translate into pictures with his stone mind.

 A sky the colour of blood and pomegranates. An ominous floating pyramid, jet black and faintly glowing. A tear in the heavens that writhes and screams. A horde of unholy monsters descends from above.

The pictures elicit emotions too. Mostly fear. The Hide-Behind sees its forest is burning with inextinguishable flame. Greater, more powerful beasts walk the land, it cannot best them. It is not safe in their woods anymore. With keening cries the creature calls for its mate. They cannot stay here; they must seek out the caves below the human settlement.

The creature’s song sends him brief sensations. He is so used to his existence in stone he has almost forgotten what it is like to taste and smell. He can smell charred wood and frightened wildlife; he can taste ash on a tongue that he does not possess. It makes him nostalgic, for his corporeal existence and the power he once commanded. The sensations fade. The song is over.

The Hide-Behind has given up its offering.

Now the attention is on him, he realizes. He is expected to grant the creature protection from further horrors. It doesn’t know he is powerless; it doesn’t know he is nothing but a shard of sentience trapped inside a statue of his former self.

Oh this is too much! He’d be cackling if he had a voice.

The creature seems to communicate on some level of psychic exchange, but it cannot read his thoughts or it would have realized his lack of power earlier. So, it must be something more deliberate. Psychic beings are dime a dozen in the nightmare realm, and the Hide-Behind does not seem as intelligent as his old compadres. At a guess he figures he must direct his response at the beast himself. A kind of two-way prayer or mental telegram. Rudimentary enough, and it lets him contrive his response as much as possible.

He composes his thoughts, clearing his stone consciousness of any reference to his imprisonment:

_GREETINGS CREATURE, I HAVE HEARD YOUR SONG, AND IN MY GREAT AND UNENDING BENEVOLENCE I GRANT YOU AND YOUR KIND IMMUNITY FROM MY INDOMITABLE WRATH. ON THE CONDITIONS THAT YOU RETURN ONCE A YEAR TO LEAVE AN OFFERING HERE AT MY SHRINE._

It sounds good, and it must be convincing because the Hide-Behind inclines its head, accepting his terms. It cries once more in thanks before rising to its gangly branch-like limbs and loping off with its uniquely unnatural gait rejoining the shadows of the forest.

The being in the statue is satisfied with himself. _Yeah-Huh_ , he thinks, _I still got it._

* * *

**IV**

“There you are, ya big ol’ equilateral eyesore.”

He wishes they’d just call him by his name. He hasn’t heard his own name uttered in years. He’s not even sure he remembers it. What good are worshippers if they won’t even utter his name. That’s where what’s left of his strength lies. Maybe the humans have figured this out.

The man addressing him is old, in human terms. His shoulders are slightly rounded, he has neatly trimmed white hair and a beard, and walks with a cane. The green of his sweater blends into the forest around him. In his free hand he holds a brown prospector’s hat that has been dented, ripped and re-sewed. He is vaguely familiar but once again any sense of recognition dissipates as soon as he tries to focus on it. Maybe this man is someone he knows from before.

The man’s companion is younger and ill at ease. He wears a hat that obscures his face.

“Dad.” He hisses, in the hopes the all-seeing statue will not hear him. “We’re not supposed to go near it.”

“Now, son.” Says the older man with a kindly air to him. “Give an old kook some closure.”

His son pauses for a while, watching him approach the statue. He chews his lip and tries another tack.

“Y’know Ford’s gonna be real pissed if he finds out you visited…that…thing.”

His father shrugs, shaking his head fondly. He doesn't take his eyes off the statue.

“Well sure is a good thing Ford ain’t here right now, ain’t it?” he says with a wry grin.

This is evidently not the response his son was expecting. “You’re not gonna tell him?” he asks.

“Tate, we don’t tell each other what we're doin’ every wakin’ second. ‘Sides I’m sure Ford’s got some stories of his own he doesn’t share.  Just let your old man say his piece and we can go back t’ town, alright?’

“Yeah sure, just get it over with. That thing gives me the creeps.”

He lays the hat at the statue’s moss-covered feet. “I've done a lot of forgivin’ in recent years. You took a lot away from me and I destroyed even more by myself. There's not much can be done about that now. I made my peace with Ford, and Tate, my family. I’ve got my own apprentice, she’s a smart little sugar cookie too. Sure it don't mean I'm ever gonna get back the time I lost, but I reckon maybe I should stop chasin’ the past and start making something outta now.” He sighs and pauses to glance back over his shoulder at his sun. It is quiet in the grotto, but deeper into the forest birds are singing. The old man scratches his nose.

So, I guess this is just to say, I forgive you. You were evil and malicious and I'm certain you’d grant no leniencies given the chance. You tried t’ kill Stanford and his family. You ruined my old life. But still, I forgive ya, and that is my prerogative to grant.”

Anger bubbles up underneath the stone. He doesn't want forgiveness; he doesn't need understanding. He can't do anything with that it gives him no power. Anger he can feed off, Fear and Chaos sure, but not this. He's being played by an aging hillbilly, and he hates it.

He imagines burning the man into a fine ash, smiting him where he stands. Back when he had his full power he could wipe someone from existence with a happy little snap of his fingers. Now he can’t do anything.

 Trapped within his stone prison he starts to throw a tantrum. It carries all the power of a toddler throwing a doll across the room.

The old man nods to himself, unaware of the being’s rage. “I guess that’s all I came to say. I’m happy with where I am, with who I am and who I’m with.” There is a dark, crowing edge to his voice. “As much as you tried, you didn’t wreck me in the end. I’m still here and I’m still better than ever.”

He spits on the earth by the hat he has left.

“Guess this is so long, can’t say I’ve missed ya these last ten years or so, can’t say I’m gonna miss you now. Goodbye and Good Riddance ya megalomaniacal polygon.”

He turns to his son, and his entire demeanour softens into something much softer and sweeter, a cotton candy old man. He pushes his glasses up his nose and shifts his weight supported by his cane.

“C’mon now, Tate. What’s say you and I stop for a bit down the diner? I could do with a bit of a break.”

His son nods, his lips twitch up slightly.  “Sure, Dad. That’s sounds nice.”

* * *

**V**

Time is another dimension he just can’t comprehend anymore. Seasons change, snow falls and melts and evaporates. Flowers bloom, humans come and go.  All things are temporary. Except for him.

When the little girl who used to bring him flowers is a young teenager, she comes to him weeping. She falls to her knees hunched by his statue, and sobs and sobs and sobs. She has lost something called an ‘Abuelita’, He’s not sure but he thinks that is a person.

Of course, humans are mortal. They’re all squishy and weak, and produce all kinds of gross fluids. There are goofy-looking reptiles who live longer than them. No, humans exist for mere milliseconds in the scale of the universe. He is omniscient and omnipotent, and he shouldn’t care that this one tiny human is upset. But actually, that might be a lie.  

Some of her tears drip onto the stone by his feet. Out of old habit she starts picking off all the moss and weeds from his stone body and places back some of the wildflowers and crystals others have brought him. Surely a powerful being such as himself would grant his most loyal worshiper a reward!?

He has no power here. He is static. He is unchangeable. It isn’t fair! He used to rend dimensions, tearing astral planes apart. He used to be life of the party.  Now he can’t even summon a voice. He can’t even remember his own name.

Anger boils hot and raises a torrent of pressure deep within his stone. He feels a flicker of something old and untapped then the wind is moving through his mind, blowing though his whole being. Shaking the trees of his grotto. He has the sensation of being bigger than his cage, of being greater than a memory trapped in stone but it fades away as quickly as it came and he’s a statue once more.

All is left behind is a still softly weeping girl surrounded by a perfect ring of wildflowers. All the bright buttercup yellow she loves so dearly. She looks up startled, bloodshot eyes widen and she turns around several times in alarm, staring at the flowers on the ground.

 Finally, she stops turned to face him and she covers her mouth, a quiet sob beneath her fingers. Her flaxen hair is stuck to her cheeks in loops. “Thank you.” She says after a while. She pats his stone face like she used to do as a child. “Thank you, Señor Triangulo” she says with a smile.

For all the power that gives him, he thinks it might as well be his name.


End file.
